Robert Reilly - Life in Prison: Eight Hours at a Time

Tilbury House, Publishers

12 Starr St.

Thomaston, Maine 04861

800-582-1899 www.tilburyhouse.com

Life in Prison Eight Hours at a Time

Copyright Robert J. Reilly

Library of Congress Control Number 2014024901

Hardcover ISBN 978-088448-412-7

eBook ISBN 978-9-88448-413-4

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to include the work in an anthology should send their inquiries to Tilbury House, Publishers, ATTN: Permissions Requests, 12 Starr St., Thomaston, ME 04861

Design by Faith Hague

Jacket photo, author photo, and photos on by David

Lyman; photo on by Pat Fallon

All other photos by Robert Reilly

All reasonable efforts have been made to identify the copyright holders.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Reilly, Robert, 1967

Life in prison : eight hours at a time / Robert Reilly.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-88448-412-7

1. Reilly, Robert, 1967- 2. Inmate guards--United States--Biography. 3. Prisons--United States. 4. Prisoners--United States. I. Title.

HV9468.R445A3 2014

365.92--dc23

[B]

2014024901

Printed in the United States of America

14 15 16 17 18 19 MAP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For

Sarah, Joshua, Lindsey & Zeke

Acknowledgments

My deepest thanks to the following people for their continued encouragement and support during the writing of this book: My wife Sarah, Doug Croley, Robert von-der-Luft, Nancy J Kennedy, Erik Phelan, Paul Ewing, Tom Laurita, David & Julie Lyman, my friend and mentor Peter Nichols, agent Tris Coburn and editor Celia Johnson.

And to the good men and women of the Pennsylvania county prison system and the Maine State Prison who looked out for me. Thank you. RR

About the Author

Robert Reilly lives and works in midcoast Maine with his wife and three children. In his scant free time he is working on a collection of short stories, and has recently released his seventh studio album with long-time friend and music collaborator Jeff Bishop. The self-titled CD Bishop-Reilly is available from iTunes and online retailers, or at www.Eastern-Records.com.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Strangeways Prison, Manchester, England, 1977

STRANGEWAYS PRISON WAS LESS THAN TWO MILES FROM OUR HOUSE. It was the kind of place most kids couldnt stop staring at. And after a century of foul weather and industrial pollution, its grimy fortress walls and sin-soaked battlements oozed agony and a cold, criminal foreboding. At night, I clearly remember staring up at the dim yellow lights glowing behind the tiny barred windows and thinking, I wonder what happens in there. I wonder what kind of men get locked up in a place like that. I also never, ever remember anyone telling their friends or parents, When I grow up, I want to be a prison guard.

The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison.

Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Scarlet Letter

Into the Abyss
Supermax Extraction

FOR THE LAST TWENTY MINUTES, THE INMATE, NAKED AND ON THE edge of hysteria, has been threatening to cut himself if he doesnt get a phone call. He wants to speak to his mother. The sergeant on duty is ignoring the blackmail and instead trying to get the inmate to slide the blade from a safety razor under the cell door. The sergeant says that after he has the blade, hell open the tray slot for the inmate to stick his hands out and get cuffed up. Only then will the door be opened. After that, the inmate will be brought out into the corridor and the cell searched for anything else that might be used as a weapon.

The dark cell-lined Supermax corridor is strangely quiet. The other prisoners in this Hannibal Lecter Sector, each in their own solitary confinement cells, are listening attentively through the hinges of their heavy steel doors. There is an air of expectation; perhaps theres going to be a show. Beyond the prison walls, a few hundred feet from the unfolding drama, the most amazing Maine fall is in the middle of a full and fantastic golden explosion. People from all over the country have traveled to see it. But this cold concrete holding tank couldnt be farther away from all of that. There are no seasons in this particular part of New England; there is only despair, an earthly equivalent of Dantes seventh circle of hella place where men whove committed the worst crimes imaginable serve out their sentences in a slow, no-contact, twenty-three-hour-a-day lockdown.

The shivering inmate with the razor blade starts to cry and softly say no over and over again. It seems like saying no is the only thing he has left; everything else has been taken away.

Then, suddenly, the inmate begins banging his head on the small Plexiglas window in the middle of the cell door. The thumping makes a deep tom-tom drumming sound that reverberates through the dark narrow cellblock. A purple contusion appears instantly on his forehead. I want to use the fucking phone! The inmate starts to sob loudly. Tears and mucus run from his eyes and nose, over his cheeks and lips, and into his mouth. He pleads for the phone, making no attempt to wipe his face.

No, you need to pass me the razor. If youre going to act like this, theres nothing we can do. The sergeants tone is dry and unemotional. He and the inmate are locked in a futile battle of refusals.

Abruptly, the head banging stops. The inmate turns, takes three steps, and then sits down on his empty metal bunk. He opens his clenched fist, grips the thin strip of a blade between his thumb, index, and middle fingers, and then starts slicing. He makes eight or ten short, deep slashing cuts to the soft area inside his elbow between his forearm and bicep. The blood begins to ooze from his arm in the shape of plum-colored leeches. It looks strange, so dark and thick against his milky white skin.

I told you I would! This is your fault! Im gonna bleed out and when I die, its all gonna be your fault.

The inmates trembling voice echoes from within the cell. It sounds like hes in a meat locker.

From a clip on his belt, the sergeant removes a ring of huge brass keys and slides one quickly into the tray slot lock and turns it a hard quarter-turn to the left. The tray slot falls open like a square metal mouth in the middle of the cell door. The sergeant then removes his mace can from a pouch on his duty belt, points it through the tray slot, and sprays a long sustained blast into the cell. The yellow stream of mace hits the inmate on the knee and then rises to find his neck and face. The sergeant empties the entire can, and the inmate starts to choke, splutter, and claw at his eyes. Theres blood everywherethick crimson blobs drip from the mans arm onto his stomach, genitals, and legs. The inmate starts choking. After a few seconds, he controls his gag reflex and then begins screaming for his mother.